


put your money on me

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Bottom Beck, Intern Peter Parker, M/M, No underage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 01:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: So, that's where he was in life. His ex-girlfriend was setting up dating profiles and picking out men for him to extort for money. Not that this was extortion. Not that any of this wasillegal, right? If a guy wanted to give Peter some money in exchange for his company, well, that was on them.(Or, Peter gets a sugar daddy and a little more than he bargained for.)





	put your money on me

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally finished this WIP that's been sitting in my drafts forever! Look, sometimes Beck just needs to bottom, don't @ me on this. But, I promise, Peter eventually gets railed. I just didn't write that part. And, somehow, this sugar daddy AU is the most wholesome thing I've written. /sob
> 
> Title from "Put Your Money on Me" by Arcade Fire. 
> 
> Edited by me so apologies for any mistakes. :')

Peter drank down his water in three swallows and, when a server swung by and refilled the crystal, he drank down that too.

This was a bad idea.

He read over the menu five more times. Jesus. Most of the prices were higher than his utility bills. He counted his silverware. Yeah, it was all there. He checked his phone. Nothing. He put it face down on the table, then five seconds later, checked it again.

This was insane.

How exactly did he let MJ talk him into it?

All he’d asked her to do was list his Star Wars collectibles on Craigslist. But she’d poked around on his laptop for far too long and, honestly, he should have known by that _look_ in her eye that something was up.

_"There,” she’d said, “now you don’t have to sell your weird toys.”_

Which, okay, a solid perk. He gave her that.

And her other reasons had been equally compelling. He was young and broke, and his unpaid internship didn’t exactly help that, college was expensive, and—oh yeah, he was broke.

Right. So _that_ was how she did it.

Still, sitting at a restaurant with a name he couldn’t pronounce and a menu he couldn’t afford, waiting for some mysterious guy looking for a _sugar baby? _Come on.

And he— he didn’t even know who he was looking for. MJ had taken complete control of the profile, assuring him she’d get him someone good. She knew his type. Which was a startling thought given the fact they’d briefly dated in high school.

So, that's where he was in life. His ex-girlfriend was setting up dating profiles and picking out men for him to extort for money. Not that this was extortion. Not that any of this was _illegal_, right? If a guy wanted to give Peter some money in exchange for his company, well, that was on them.

Peter turned up his glass and tried to drain what was left, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Oh, god. He was a prostitute.

This literally couldn’t get any worse.

Except, that it could, and it did, and very quickly.

Across the room, Quentin Beck— _the_ Quentin Beck— stood at the host stand, handing off his jacket to the coat check. Peter felt his stomach climb to his throat, and he kept his mouth shut tight in case it decided to fall out right there.

It wasn’t like Beck was going to know why he was there, or for that matter even _recognize_ him.

He was a big shot at Stark Industries; the head program director of the department responsible for developing the groundbreaking illusion tech that had the whole office buzzing. So high on the totem pole that Peter wasn’t even allowed on that floor, much less get close enough to show up on Beck’s radar.

Play it cool. Don’t look at him.

Except, that he did and very obviously.

To Peter’s defense, it was because Beck walked straight toward his table, pulled out the chair, sat down, and looked at Peter most expectantly.

“You must be Peter,” Beck said, holding out his hand.

“Uhhh,” Peter said in return, staring at said hand like it was a lobster claw. It took a moment for his brain to reboot, but he reached out and took Beck by the very human, decidedly _not_ crustacean, appendage and gave him (what he hoped was) a firm and confident shake. “Peter Parker.”

“Of course.” Beck smiled easily, and Peter felt a swooping sensation take hold of him. “I’m—”

“Quentin Beck.” That swooping quickly turned to sinking. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry for wasting your time, sir,” Peter sighed, and when Beck only raised a brow, he went on to explain: “We work together.”

Peter cringed. That made it sound like he was anybody at all of importance. God, he looked like such an idiot. This was the last time he _ever_ let MJ try to help him; that was if he even survived this catastrophic event to decide such things.

“I know. What department?”

“What?”

Beck leaned his elbows on the table, fingers laced together, and chin propped against his knuckles. He didn’t look mad, or confused, just…amused. “What department do you work in?”

“I…I’m just an intern. I usually run errands for the execs on the third floor. Coffee, things like that," Peter said, swallowing and leaning back for every inch that Beck leaned forward. If he toppled out of his chair, that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him.

“I’m guessing someone set you up to this.”

“Wait,” Peter said, ignoring the fact he felt a headache forming right between his eyes. “You knew I worked for Stark?”

“Your profile said so,” Beck said slowly, that unsettling, but dreadfully hot, twinkle still in his eyes. “But I’m guessing you didn’t set that up either.”

No. He hadn’t, because if he had, he wouldn’t have reached out and set up a date with one of Stark Industries’ biggest names. Beck was probably going to laugh all the way to the bank with this one. The office Christmas party was going to be a blast. He could see it now—Beck with a fluke of champagne and a cashmere sweater, laughing and telling everyone about the third-floor intern who thought he had a chance.

Peter’s face grew hot and suddenly his collar was all but choking the life out of him. He grabbed his phone and stood abruptly. “I should go.”

“Sit down, Peter.”

Pet sat.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you leave here without a little security,” Beck said, low and just on the edge on threatening. Those baby-blues were terrifying when they were shadowed and sharpened like a knife.

“Security, sir?”

“I value my privacy. I’m sure you understand. So, if you aren’t interested in working out an arrangement, then allow me to give you a little incentive to keep this between us.”

Okay, so, he was going to lose his dignity, reputation, and internship all in one night. Great.

“I’m not going to say a word, honest. I swear—”

“Peter.”

Peter’s mouth clicked shut.

“There we go,” Beck said calmly, and his face went from grim to gracious. He reached within the lapels of his suitcoat and retrieved a checkbook and fountain pen, and Peter tried not to crane his neck too hard to see what was happening as he scribbled. Beck seemed to move in slow motion as he ripped the check away and slid the check across the table.

Peter blinked down at it, and the world stopped.

_Oh, shit._

“Is…is there some kind of mistake, sir?”

“No.”

That was more zeroes than Peter’s bank account had ever seen. It all became too real, too fast. He hadn’t even agreed to anything, right? He had no idea it would be so…transactional? Like a business deal— though, he should have guessed with a man like Beck.

“I can’t accept this.” Peter pushed the check back.

Beck mimicked him, sliding it back across the table, voice dropping an octave lower when he whispered, “I insist.”

That didn’t leave much room for argument. Peter took it with shaking hands and a lump in his throat. “I don’t even know that—I don’t—”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could turn down Quentin Beck.

“That’s to keep quiet,” Beck explained. “If you decided to go forward…Well, I’ll be a lot more generous than that.”

Peter’s eyes snapped open and he blanched.

“What?”

“I’m not a cheap man, Pete.”

“I—” Peter gave a disbelieving laugh. Nicknames already? “Yeah, I see that.”

“But hey, I get it,” Beck leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands wide. They were nice hands…big, broad, coated in fine hair; masculine hands that—

Get it together, Parker.

“You do?”

“Sure. A friend set you up to this; You aren’t interested; I’m not your type,” Beck grinned, dangerous and with sharp teeth, as he ticked off the reasons on his fingers. It was all very flashy. Smug. What an _asshole_. He didn’t believe a thing that came out of his own mouth. Of course, he _knew_ that he was Peter’s exact type. That hungry gaze said everything his mouth wouldn’t—that Quentin Beck was everyone’s type.

“That’s not it.”

“What is it then?”

“I just—” Peter leaned in, whispered through his teeth, “_I’m not a prostitute_.”

Beck had the audacity to laugh. A full, hearty laugh, that was too loud and definitely attracting attention.

_Please, just shut up_, Peter thought—and whether it was toward Beck or himself, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Peter buried his burning face in his hands and wished, desperately, that he could vanish on the spot. This was quickly snowballing into a disaster of the highest caliber, and he _knew_ disasters. Why did he think this was going to work? What did he think was going to happen? Some older man was going to swoop in and solve all his financial troubles and maybe, _maybe_ he’d have to put out?

“Pete.”

This was bad. He wasn’t going to be able to show his face at Stark Industries ever again. He was going to have to move cities. Maybe even states—

“Peter.”

Peter looked up; his focus bleary. “Yeah?”

“Calm down,” Beck whispered. Reassuring. Different than the commanding tone of earlier. Then, he did something strange. He reached across the table and took Peter by the wrist, rubbing soothing circles along his pulse point. “You good, kid?”

Peter stared at Beck’s gentle thumbs on his skin, barely able to process what was happening. He did feel marginally better, which was interesting along with extremely confusing. The only thing he could think to mumble was— “Not a kid.”

“Twenty-three?” Peter nodded and Beck’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Yeah, you’re a kid.”

Peter didn’t have it in him to argue. It wasn’t even like Beck was entirely wrong. He barely felt like an adult, even after moving into his own studio apartment and graduating top of his class. But that’s what the early twenties were, right? A lot of ramen and financial debt and finding a sugar daddy to make it all better.

“Look, you don’t have to make a decision right now,” Beck said, breaking the awkward still of silence that Peter had allowed to settle between them. “I’m not looking for a prostitute, Peter. Believe it or not, our line of work doesn’t allow for much room in the dating scene. I’m comfortable enough admitting that sometimes I get lonely. A couple of nights like this is fine.”

“Oh,” Peter whispered because, if he were to speak any louder, he was almost certain it would crack. “Just this? Like…go on dates?”

“Sure, if that’s how you want to think of it. There are parties too. Some nights I might want to just stay in and not watch a movie alone.”

“Oh,” Peter said again. It was hard to picture a guy like Beck hard up for company. It was almost sad, not really in a pathetic way but more like…a horribly relatable way. “Okay, that—that doesn’t sound so bad.”

Beck smiled, soft at first, before morphing into something more devious. “If you’re inclined to try anything else, well…You’d be under no obligation but,” his gaze dropped and lifted slowly, perfectly white teeth digging into his lip, “I wouldn’t say no.”

“I—” Peter swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of Beck’s hand still on his wrist. “I’ll think about it.”

The curse of it was, he wasn’t lying. No bluffs here. He was definitely, without a doubt, going to think about it. Holy shit.

“No pressure.”

“No pressure,” Peter parroted back.

Except, there was _a lot_ of pressure. Particularly, and most notably, in his general crotch region.

“Now, give me your phone.” Beck released his hold on Peter, leaving his skin tingly and warm, and held out an open palm. Was it a good idea for Peter to drop his phone into it? Probably not, but he did anyway. “Thank you.”

Peter watched in stunned silence as Beck’s fingers moved across the cracked screen. The last time he left one of his electronic devices in the hands of someone else, he came away with a blind date, so he couldn’t help but be a little nervous.

“There,” Beck said finally, handing his phone back to him. Peter instantly looked it over and found nothing amiss, except for a new text addressed to QB. “I’ll be out of town for two weeks on business. Think it over and reach out.”

Two weeks. That would give him plenty of time.

(Never mind that little voice that nagged— _“You already made a decision!”_)

“Okay, yeah, sure,” Peter said, very eloquently.

Thankfully, he was saved from further embarrassment by the server circling back to their table and taking their order. Beck ordered something perfect French, and when Peter stumbled and sputtered, panicking at picking something off a menu he hadn’t looked at since Beck sat down—Beck came to the rescue and ordered for him.

“You’ll like it,” he assured.

Peter wasn’t sure how he figured that but smiled politely. He was probably right anyway, Beck seemed like the kind of guy that had good taste. He dressed nice. He smelled nice. His hair was always perfectly combed back, and his beard was always neat. Though, the fact that he was sitting here across from Peter, a broke kid from Queens, was perhaps a little questionable.

“So, Peter Parker,” Beck said on a dramatic exhale, folding his hands beneath his chin and giving a shark-like grin, “tell me about yourself.”

The cab hadn’t even pulled up to the curb before Peter sent Beck a text.

Two weeks passed pretty quickly when the only thing a person thought about was getting bent over and absolutely railed by a hot, successful silver fox.

And yes, _Quentin_— he had to stop thinking of him as Beck— was absolutely a silver fox. Peter saw the threads of gray at his temples and in his beard when they shook hands beneath the streetlamp outside the restaurant.

(Or, rather, when Quentin went in for the shake, and Peter had gone in for a hug and they ended up in some awkward robotic dance trying to figure out how to proceed. They’d settled for a handshake because hugging was weird, right?)

Though, that prompted Peter to think _a lot_ about Quentin’s arms around him. Mostly in positions far less wholesome than a hug. Usually naked and with Peter seated on his lap, or wrapped around him from behind while he—

_Yeah._

Maybe he’d lied when he said just going on dates and having low-key evenings in didn’t sound so bad. The thought of being alone with Quentin and not getting destroyed by him was nearly unbearable.

And the fact that Peter made it through their entire meal, forced to look at Quentin dressed like he stepped off the cover of GQ, and didn’t completely burn to a crisp despite being on fire? Nothing short of a miracle. Even more so? The fact he didn’t faint when Quentin invited him back to his place—the fact that he actually managed to say yes without squeaking.

So, there they were, sitting in Quentin’s impressive high-rise penthouse, on a couch made of what Peter was pretty sure was genuine leather, drinking some bubbly in front of a sleek, modern fireplace.

“How late can you stay?”

Peter took a long sip of his drink to stop his mouth from saying something stupid like—

_“However long it takes you to fuck me silly.”_

_“However long you let me.”_

_“Forever.”_

Instead, he just placed his glass on the coffee table and shrugged, played it nonchalant and casual. “I’m off tomorrow, it doesn’t matter.”

“Good,” Quentin hummed, going quiet, eyes roaming his living room like it was the first time he’d seen it.

Peter tapped his fingers against his knee and did the same, anything at all to diffuse the sudden tension in the room. It just made him realize how out of place he was. The exposed pipes and brick on Quentin’s walls were there for a purposeful aesthetic choice. Peter’s exposed brick and piping? That was because the wallpaper had peeled away, and the pipes rattled and sometimes steamed, and Peter was about ninety-nine percent sure the insides were caked in asbestos.

“Nice place,” Peter finally said, because he had to say something, the silence was maddening.

“Thanks,” Quentin replied, completely steamrolling the compliment to go straight into, “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but we’ve had a good night, right?”

Peter blinked, heart racing. “Yeah, it’s been great.”

“And I don’t want to seem too pushy—”

Oh. Oh, god. It was happening. Peter was already sweating through his shirt, instinctively scooting closer on the couch, absolutely on tenterhooks.

“Look, I think you’re a great kid, Pete, I do. I like you, and you reserve the right to say no but—”

“Yes.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow, either impressed or appalled by Peter’s response. “Yes? Do you even know what I’m going to ask?”

The thing was, he did; or, at least he was pretty sure. Peter had been reading the signs all night. Actually, longer than that. They’d texted on and off for the entire two weeks he was out of town. Peter had even sent him a picture after his work-out of him sweaty and in his gym clothes, showing off what lean muscle he had. That idea had been all MJ— and despite being very adamant about not listening to her, it _had_ gotten him a very promising response in the form of a snapshot of Quentin’s big hand cupping an even bigger tent between his legs.

Things got a little flirty after that, and Peter…well, he wasn’t complaining. If he was going to be a _sugar baby_ and keep Quentin company, the least he could do was make sure his _sugar daddy_ didn’t get lonely on the road.

(Plus, he’d just got a new, not cracked, phone with the money Quentin deposited into his bank account. What better way to say thank you than with a couple of risqué photos? And even then, pictures turned to a conversation, and the conversation turned into really getting to know him and Peter _liked_ Quentin. And he was pretty sure Quentin liked him too.)

So, yeah, he was pretty sure he knew what was going to be asked.

“I mean, I think so,” Peter said demurely.

He needed to play timid and not overeager, even as he inched ever closer, abolishing the gap between them on the sofa. The moment he was within distance, Quentin reached and pulled him to straddle his lap, breaking all pretense of playing coy, grinning up with a smile that said Peter didn’t really have a clue.

Which would have been troubling if it weren’t so incredibly hot.

“You _think_ so?” Quentin growled, possessive hands running up Peter’s back, under his shirt, like they’d been aching to that exact thing all night. Maybe they had.

“Yeah,” Peter gasped when lips attached to his throat and kissed their way up the column of his neck, stopping to suck just below his ear. “Yeah, oh my god— _Quentin._”

“What is it? What do you think I want?”

Fuck. Peter didn’t know, not for certain, but his cock was already starting to press uncomfortably against his zipper and if Quentin’s plans didn’t involve them both getting off, he might actually die.

“_Ahhh_, do you wanna—” Quentin bit down and Peter’s train of thought broke off into a breathless moan. “Do you wanna—”

Okay, Quentin was going to have to stop doing that if he wanted him to answer coherently. Then again, Peter was pretty sure if he stopped, he’d cry, so it was really a lose-lose situation. Or, maybe a win-win situation, given how perfect Quentin’s mouth felt on him.

“Do I want to what, baby?” Quentin growled, nosing against his tender and spit-slick neck. “Come on, ask me.”

Peter whined and braced himself on those broad shoulders that sat beneath his hands, grinding down close, just anything to relieve the pressure building in him. He didn’t care that he was acting like a cat in heat, rubbing against Quentin, hoping his actions spoke louder than words.

“Fuck me,” Peter finally choked out, and once the dam broke, he couldn’t stop. “Do you wanna fuck me? Please, _oh my god_.”

“Close, but not quite,” Quentin hummed against him, hands sliding down Peter’s back to cup at his ass and drag him forward, harder, more urgently. “I was thinking about trying a little different.”

At this point, Peter was ready to accept whatever weird, kinky thing Quentin wanted to throw at him—which only proved how dangerous he was. He hadn’t even kissed Peter properly and Peter was already more than willing to jump when Quentin said jump.

God, he was easy.

“Yeah, anything.”

“Well,” Quentin said, placing another bruising kiss to his throat before letting his hands slip down the back of Peter’s pants, which were, unfortunately, too tight for him to get very far. Peter hoped that meant they were coming off. “How about—” Another kiss, this one at his jaw and then one to the corner of his mouth, “—you fuck me?”

“Yeah,” Peter groaned enthusiastically, and then— wait, what? He swore he heard a record scratch somewhere in the back of his head. He pulled back, looking down at Quentin’s heavy-lidded, sultry stare, and tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. “Did you—did you just?”

“Ask you to fuck me?”

“Yeah,” Peter drawled slowly. Was he drunk?

_Was he dead?_

Because guys like Quentin—no, _men_ like Quentin—didn’t want to get fucked by scrawny twigs like Peter. He was supposed to…well, wasn’t Peter supposed to get on his knees and call him daddy? Or something equally cliché, ripped straight from a porno?

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” Quentin murmured, resuming his kisses along Peter’s collarbone now that he was upright. “I’m flexible.”

Okay, Peter needed to think about this and oh, god, he couldn’t think when Quentin’s hands were falling to his front and unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down and— “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Oh my god, Quentin. Are you— are you serious?”

“About this?” Quentin gave a squeeze where he cupped Peter’s embarrassingly hard cock through his briefs, wringing out a needy moan. “Or about you fucking me?”

Both. Neither. He didn’t know.

_Did_ he want to fuck Quentin?

He’d been fantasizing about it the other way around for nearly two weeks straight. Those pictures he’d sent Quentin, the ones where he posed in the mirror and held himself through his gym shorts— had Quentin been picturing what it would be like for Peter to pull himself out and line up, push into him and fuck him? Did he picture Peter’s body moving between his solid, powerful legs? Did he want to moan, pant and beg for it? For him?

Oh god. _Yeah._

He wanted to fuck Quentin.

“Okay,” Peter said, moving the hand away from his dick before it, along with these new and insanely hot fantasies, made him come before they ever really got started. “Do you wanna? Here?”

“Bedroom.”

“Yeah, okay, smart.”

They were both a bit breathless, both on edge. Peter peeled himself away from Quentin, reluctant to let remove himself from that heat and comfort for long. Luckily, he was pulled back to him the moment they were both upright, Quentin walking them back toward the bedroom.

Which—was just as big and spacious as the rest of the apartment. A big king-size bed on the far wall, a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the city from a good sixty stories up. Everything was clean and neat, and picturesque. It didn’t look lived in.

Peter frowned, unexpectedly sad by the sterility of it all.

“You alright?” Quentin rubbed his hands up Peter’s arms, to his shoulders, giving him a squeeze and a smile.

_Are you?_ Peter wanted to ask. Because suddenly, the thought of handsome Quentin in his big, nice high-rise, alone and paying for the company of another seemed tragic. That would be rude though, maybe more than rude. That might get him…fired? Dismissed? Terminated?

“Yeah, I’m good,” Peter said with a reassuring smile and walked his fingers up Quentin’s chest, stopping at his sternum to give a playful push.

“Second thoughts?”

“No, not at all.”

Peter showed him with a kiss. A real kiss, slow and soft, that Quentin groaned into, prompting him to make quick work of Peter’s shirt, breaking apart just long enough to get it over his head, tossing it to the floor. They dove in for a second kiss before Peter realized that Quentin’s shirt needed to go to, and he halfheartedly pulled away to allow him to do so, and—

He was not disappointed.

“God, you’re unfairly hot,” Peter whined.

That actually might have been the understatement of the century. Quentin was all muscle, thick and wide and solid and covered in dark hair and oh my god, Peter was going to willingly and gladly fuck him but if he didn’t, at some point, end up with Quentin’s cock inside him, he was going to riot.

“Not so bad yourself, kid.”

Peter crossed his arms to cover his chest, looking away sheepishly, because he only just then realized how ridiculous he actually looked standing next to him. Quentin was bigger in about every imaginable way, not that it took much with a frame like Peter’s, but their differences were exceptionally stark while standing together half-clothed. Peter was slight and short, and even though he hit the gym regularly, he lacked the bulk that Quentin had on him. He lacked the hair too, and shit, this was starting to look more and more like a cruel, cosmic joke.

“Peter,” Quentin said quietly, placing a hand on Peter’s chin and tilting it upward for their eyes to meet. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Just,” he sighed, “I don’t know. Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Yes, of course.” There was a long beat of silence accompanied by the most intense stare that Peter had ever been on the receiving end of. “Have you ever fucked someone before?”

“What? Yeah!” Peter sputtered, a little too fast for it to be entirely truthful. “I mean, I’ve fucked girls. Guys, well, I usually don’t, uhm, do the fucking.”

“I see.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Peter rushed to clarify, because he was not, under any circumstances, going to fuck this one up. “The opportunity just never presented itself.”

Quentin stepped back, hands going to the button of his pants. Peter watched, nearly drooling, as he pulled down, underwear and all, and stepped out of them. And there he was, naked, half-hard and so hot that Peter heard sirens wailing in his ears.

An opportunity presenting itself.

“Alright then. How do you want to do this?”

Thank god Peter had taken his shirt off because that would have caused him to sweat right through it. How was he supposed to act? Did Quentin want him to take control? Could he even do that?

Well, only one way to find out.

“Uhm, on the bed.”

Quentin nodded, a grin that bordered smarmy on his face like he knew the exact position he was putting Peter in. Or, maybe, be knew exactly what position Peter wanted _him_ to be in and was having fun exploiting all the fluster.

The latter option seemed most likely.

Quentin climbed on top of the pristine white comforter and laid back, hands behind his head. “Like this?”

Oh. He wasn’t going to make this easy. But, on second thought—Quentin on his back, legs spread and knees up, where Peter could see his face and that chest and that, honestly impressive, cock?

“Yeah,” Peter swallowed. “That’s good.”

Quentin’s smile only widened, and he rolled over to rummage through a nightstand drawer, coming back with a small bottle and a foiled packet. Peter felt his heart rate spike, and everything suddenly became much more real. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, readying himself.

He could do this. It’d been a long time since he’d slept with a girl— MJ, probably, if he had to guess.

And no, Peter, don’t think of her here.

But this, still, wasn’t sleeping with a girl. This was sleeping with a man twice his age and his size. A man that happened to be his _sugar daddy_.

Oh god. Oh god.

Now wasn’t the time to panic.

“You gonna stand there all night?”

Peter opened his eyes and very nearly closed them again because the sight that awaited him had his cock twitching, eager and rock hard with anticipation. Quentin, both feet planted firmly on the mattress, knees bent, and back arched and there was a hand snaked beneath him and two, thick fingers pumping in and out.

“No—I’m, I’m coming,” he said, voice betraying him and cracking at the end.

“Not so soon, I hope.”

Peter laughed, but it was borderline manic. Honestly, it’d probably be a lot funnier if he weren’t so terrified of doing exactly that.

He worked his pants off, something he should have done ten minutes prior, and shook them off his ankle until they finally released him, and he was free to stand at the foot of the bed to watch Quentin enthusiastically fuck himself, now up to three fingers.

The mattress dipped and Quentin, breathless and panting, tossed the shiny gold packet square at his chest.

Peter didn’t need any instruction with this. He’d put on many a condom, both on himself and other people. Once or twice, with his mouth—and yeah, maybe he could show that trick to Quentin one day. Assuming that this night didn’t botch their relationship.

Not that they were in a relationship.

“Hey,” Quentin said softly and widened his legs, making enough room for Peter to slot perfectly between them. “Come on, baby boy, show me what you’ve got.”

Oh. His entire body went aflame, eyelids fluttering shut before he regained his composure.

If he thought rolling a condom on with shaky hands was difficult, crawling between Quentin’s legs proved to be even more so. Peter got a hand on each one, feeling the coarse hair beneath his palm, the hard muscle flexing under his touch, and shivered. How was this his life? He felt comically small-framed between Quentin’s thighs, massive enough to squeeze the life out of him if Quentin decided to clamp down. Peter would let him. He’d really let him.

“Ready?”

“I’ve been ready,” Quentin hummed, and that was probably true. Peter knew he’d been stalling. “Wanted you the moment I saw you.”

Peter groaned, hanging his head. God, Quentin either wanted to kill him or flatter him. It wasn’t fair. How could he say things like that so effortlessly? Peter lined up to hide his fluster, just rubbing himself against the warmth that radiated from the willing body beneath him, giving himself a couple of pumps of his fist.

“At the restaurant?”

“Longer than that, _ahhh_— fuck, baby, that’s it.”

Peter pushed in slowly and attempted to remember how to breath as that tight heat swallowed him. Fuck, Quentin felt so good, he wasn’t even all the way in and already he was seeing stars. He wanted to say something, anything at all, that might come close to being hot, but the only thing produced was a strangled moan.

“Good?” Peter finally found the strength to ask, and immediately hated how pathetic it sounded.

_Tell me I’m good. _

“Yeah, you have a real nice cock,” Quentin panted and if all of Peter’s blood weren’t currently located in said cock, he might have blushed. Just like that, the playful teasing disappeared, and Quentin’s eyes narrowed in a heated challenge. “Do you know how to use it?”

The best way to answer was a demonstration.

He pulled almost out, a long and slow drag that was more for his sake than Quentin’s, and slammed back in, working a gasp from both of them.

“Come on, baby, fuck me.”

Peter couldn’t say no to that. Never mind that he didn’t have it in him at all to say no to Quentin.

It didn’t take him long to work up a rhythm, listening to the clues in Quentin’s breathing, when it went ragged, when he held it in, when he let it out.

And Peter couldn’t look away from the blissed-out look on Quentin’s face as he openly moaned and begged for him. Those hooded eyes that kept his attention in a stronghold; those thick brows that furrowed and relaxed with each of Peter’s timed thrusts; those teeth that stayed bared through it all; that mouth that kept making needy sounds; those lips that Peter just wanted to—

“Quentin, oh god, can I kiss you?”

It felt almost ridiculous to ask, seeing that he’d already kissed him once and that he was buried to the hilt inside him. But kissing _while_ buried to the hilt inside of him… It just seemed so intimate, too intimate for their arrangement. But at that moment, it was all he wanted and what little part of his brain that wasn’t complete mush from overstimulation, became a constant mantra of _please, please, please, say yes._

Quentin didn’t anything. Not yes. Not no.

What he did, instead, was reach up and to get a strong hand on the back of Peter’s head, dragging him down to bring their mouths together in a sloppy, clumsy kiss. One that ended up just being Peter moaning against his mouth while trying to coordinate and time the movement of his hips with the slide of tongue.

“Come on,” Quentin growled against his lips, kissing fervently at the side of his mouth. “Harder. Give it to me.”

Peter bit off a broken moan and leaned back on his knees, trading the proximity of Quentin’s soft mouth and rough beard to get better leverage to thrust in brutal, quick snaps of his hips.

“There you go, _ahh_, fuck. Just like that,” Quentin said through gritted teeth. “You like fucking me, baby?”

“I—” Peter whined, his rhythm faltering. His mind hadn’t been able to produce much more than groans and whimpers, but god, he needed Quentin to know how much he loved this. How good it felt. How fucking hot it was to see him take it. All that came out was a breathless— _“Yeah.”_

“Yeah?”

“_Yes_,” Peter hissed.

“Tell me.”

Fuck. Was he trying to get this over with? Because every rumble of Quentin’s hoarse, fucked-out voice brought him one step closer to coming.

“Good, _ahhh_, you’re so—” Peter stammered, trying to articulate his thoughts.

How do you tell a grown man how tight he is? Quentin’s body was almost squeezing the life out of him, so compact and perfect and _shit_, he wasn’t going to last. Oh well, let the slap of skin and desperate, embarrassing noises he made be the answer.

“Are you close?” Quentin breathed out, and he sounded wrecked before but— _oh_, he had a hand around his cock, tugging on himself, twisting at the top, panting like he just ran a marathon. “You gonna make me come, baby boy?”

“_Oh fuck, oh fuck_. I’m—” Peter babbled, slamming in hard one last time.

There was nothing he could do; he didn’t stand a chance. Never did.

He came hard, pulsing into the condom, working every last drop of himself with a groan while Quentin mumbled encouragements that his brain couldn’t decipher.

“You’re so hot, baby— using me, getting yourself off like that— _fuck_, Pete—”

Peter knocked his hand away, desperate to be the one to do it, to be the one that made Quentin come. It wasn’t going to take much, judging by his state, just a couple squeezes around the head and a slick stroke of his fist and Quentin was bucking up into his hand, making a deep, throaty noise.

A noise that he wanted more than anything to hear again, and again, and—

Peter leaned down and stretched his lips over the tip. It was more than a mouthful, but not much was needed for Quentin to tense up, coming in Peter’s mouth and along his lips with a long groan and a hand that seemed to find his sweat-curled hair on reflex.

And in his post-orgasmic haze, Peter dropped his head to the soft inside of Quentin’s thigh and tried to catch his breath. The hand his hair loosened, switching from pulling to petting; long strokes that curled around his ear, tucking the curls back from his forehead in a strangely intimate gesture.

“Was that okay?” It wasn’t that he was necessarily looking for praise but, well, it wouldn’t exactly hurt. Now that the haze was lifting, a mess of other emotions started to coil inside him. Anxiety, self-consciousness, fear.

He liked Quentin, and yeah, he was technically buying Peter’s time—and _yeah_, maybe, possibly this made him closer to a male escort than sugar baby, but…he would have done it regardless. The problem was, Quentin wouldn’t have looked twice at him without some incentive.

A no-strings incentive.

_No strings_.

Yet, here Peter was, huddled between Quentin’s legs and unfurling a whole ball of yarn.

“Pete? You hear me?”

Peter lifted his head and found Quentin looking down at him, unreadable expression creased on his face. Shit. He was probably wondering what he was still doing here. Peter muttered an apology under his breath, scrambling up and off the bed, ridding himself of the condom and tying it off, frantically looking for the trashcan, trying to remember to breath, finding the trashcan, and all while trying not to have a complete and utter breakdown.

“Peter!”

“Hm, yeah, no don’t worry I’m—” Peter hopped into his underwear, shimmying them up and over his hips, the elastic band snapping unusually loud in the sparse room. Shit. “I’m leaving.”

“What?”

Peter stopped. Blinked. “What?”

Out of all the sounds Peter expected from Quentin, a laugh wasn’t one of them. God, it might have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard—aside from maybe the noise he made when he came because that would have been pretty top tier.

Quentin, now under the duvet, flipped it back and patted the empty space beside him. “C’ mere, kid.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I don’t want you leaving,” he paused, frowned, “unless you want to leave and then—”

“No!” Peter yelped. “No, I don’t want to leave, I thought…”

“You think too much,” Quentin teased, not unkindly. His smile was fond; warm and inviting. Peter wanted to melt right into it. “Now come here.”

He wasn’t wrong. Peter often felt like he had more thoughts in his head than his brain could hold, always rapid firing and sending mixed signals to himself and everyone else. It’d be nice to have a place to maybe shut that off. Somewhere that he could just relax and feel comfortable and feel wanted, and maybe that place could be with Quentin.

“Okay,” Peter smiled, letting go of all the frantic buzz he was holding onto, crawling back into the soft bed to slot himself next to Quentin, who pulled him closer with an arm around his shoulder.

“See? That’s better.”

Peter hummed his affirmation and burrowed closer. If Quentin was up for cuddling and pillow talk, well, he wasn’t going to turn it down. It felt good to rest his head on a warm chest, to let his breathing sync up with the rise and fall beneath him. It felt good to feel the scrape of beard against his hairline, to feel soft lips on his forehead.

“What time is it?” Peter asked after what seemed like both forever and no time at all. Late, probably, if he had a guess. 

Quentin reached over to the nightstand, grabbing his phone, the screen illuminating his tired eyes and the perfect slope of his nose. “Midnight, do you want to stay?”

“You’re handsome,” Peter said sleepily, in place of an answer. It was kind of a stupid question. “You know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Yeah?”

“Once or twice,” Quentin said, turning his head in and nuzzling said perfectly-sloped nose against Peter’s temple. “Actually, I think the phrase was _unfairly hot_.”

Peter tilted his head up, their mouths inches apart, but he only let himself get distracted by thoughts of kissing long enough to pull a very serious face and say, “I think someone was just trying to get into your pants.”

“Oh?” Quentin laughed, leaning closer, breath ghosting along Peter’s lips. “So, is that a yes? Are you staying?”

Peter kissed him before he could say something stupid like—

_"Yeah, however long it takes you to fuck me silly.”_

_“Yeah, however long you let me.”_

_"Yeah, forever.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on twitter (shineonloki1) and tumblr (shineonloki)!  
:3c
> 
> Feedback loved and appreciated, thank you. <3


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